I See You
by victoriansass
Summary: She likes him stripped bare. In more ways than one.


Wet cotton clinging to skin is one of the world's least pleasant sensations, although Sara has to admit - as she leans against the locker room doorway - that there are certain advantages for the onlooker.

Len is clearly less than impressed with how today has gone, although she figures sprinkler systems must be an occupational hazard when you hung around with Mick and his itchy trigger finger. Even so, Len has the expression of a particularly pissed off drowned rat as he dumps his gear and opens up the locker, apparently unaware that Sara has followed him.

Which affords her a fine opportunity to admire as his tee shirt sticks to him in every good place. All broad shoulders and trim waist, tight material accentuating the outline of slender muscle.

She smiles to herself. _Not bad, Snart. Not bad at all_.

Maybe it's her low inhale of appreciation that catches his attention. Or maybe he knew she was there all along, and only now bothers to glance at her – albeit briefly – over his shoulder.

"Do you mind?" he drawls with his usual nonchalance, although in his current mood there's an extra bite to his tone. "This isn't a peep show."

Unperturbed, Sara shrugs.

"I figured you've starred at my ass enough times and you believe in equality of the sexes, right?"

His sneer seems more to do with being outwitted and wet than a form of disagreement.

"Enjoy the performance then."

He drags the shirt over his head without ceremony – without acknowledging her watching eyes – letting it fall to the floor with a sodden slap before rummaging through the locker for a clean one.

She's not ashamed to admit that she moves a few steps closer, wanting a better look. Not just for the aesthetics – pleasing as they are – but because he's such a damn mystery still. He can be so detached, so careful in the impression he cultures. It's a rare opportunity to see him as… well, just a guy.

He's lean, of course. All tight trained muscle and not an inch of excess. Controlled. _Honed_. He's not the type to carry around what he doesn't need. Considering his line of work he appears, at first glance, to be surprisingly unblemished too (she decides not to tell him she was half expecting some kind of ice sculpture tattoo).

Yet when she dares to look closer, the cool white light highlights a faded scar at his side and if she takes half a step to the right she can see that it crosses his hip round to his front. Scars are personal - they're stories – and beneath the curiosity she feels sudden guilt for intruding.

Particularly when she realises that he's spotted her. Fresh tee shirt bunched in his hands as he turns round to face her scrutiny.

She should pretend she didn't see it. He should put his shirt on and pretend he hadn't seen her looking. But neither of them are the type to back down.

"Heist gone wrong?" she asks with a casual nod.

"They never go _that_ wrong."

"Angry ex-girlfriend then?"

"Don't have any of those."

"Ex-girlfriends?"

"Angry ones."

He seems to have a knack for making her smile when she doesn't want to.

She expects the misdirection to continue, for him to make up some ludicrous bullshit and then change the topic. She doesn't expect his honesty.

"Actually there was this one time I came between my dad, my sister and this bottle of whiskey."

The silence that follows is heavier than Sara intends. She already knows from his offhand comments that his dad was a shit and that the guy wasn't above smacking his kids about but this… it's permanent. Real. Not just a story told but one Len now carries with him.

She knows too that he doesn't want her pity. So what then? Why tell her?

Maybe because he wants her to see _him_.

A few steps closer – with him very still, shirt still in hand – and she spots the scar's twin, cutting a diagonal line across his collarbone. She nods at it, not daring the touch her fingers itch to make.

"And this?"

"That was the second time. He always said we were slow learners."

She breathes in deep. Feels anger for him, but keeps her countenance steady.

"That was brave."

Her words are meant in lieu of a soothing touch which she doesn't feel confident enough to give, but instead of reassured he just looks annoyed with himself, drawing back and finally tugging the clean tee shirt over his head.

"Yeah, well the third time I wasn't there. You have to admire the man's persistence."

Len starts packing his gear away into the locker with a clear weight to each action, his own anger just held in check. Maybe a smarter person wouldn't try to push their way through that hard exterior but Sara hadn't ever exactly been the queen of good decisions.

She leans against the locker next to him.

"You looked out for your sister, I admire that."

She thinks his look is meant to be withering in a ' _we don't do feelings_ ' kind of way. But he doesn't pull it off and instead looks kind of uncomfortable. Exposed. More so now that when he was standing there in just his pants.

"Tell me, Miss Lance – do you ever feel like you let your sister down?"

There's a challenge there, a ' _you don't know me_ ' dismissal that she's almost offended by before she realises that he _doesn't_ know. She hasn't told him anything of what she did to Laurel.

"All the time."

She knows the truth of that shows because he frowns briefly before backing down. Accepting it with a wordless nod.

Maybe she'll tell him all about it over a drink some time.

"Well don't start thinking of me as chivalrous," he continues, sounding more like himself (at least the version he wants everyone to know) as he picks up his jacket and shrugs it back on. "Like I said before, I'm no white knight.

She smiles, knowing when to let something slide away. When to let him have his pretences.

"Perish the thought."

She says it in tease before her tone changes to something that sits between kind and solemn.

"You should give yourself more credit though; you're not your father's son. Not by a long shot."

"No, I'm smarter for a start."

She doesn't mind that deflection. She doesn't need his acknowledgement, just wants him to know that she gets it. That she _sees_ him.

"And better looking?" she asks, her grin positively flirtatious now.

"Oh that's a given. You seemed impressed anyway."

She declines to respond to that – a girl is allowed to keep an air of mystery about these things –shrugging as she heads to the door.

"I dunno. I always like to reserve judgement until I've seen the whole package."

"Maybe in time you will."

And he's grinning too, eyebrow arched. A well perfected act because she knows that neither of them are talking about what's under his clothes.

At least, that's not _all_ they're talking about anyway.


End file.
